Imperturbable
by Mina Shelley
Summary: John Watson was convinced that there was nothing that could break the cool, composed, controlled exterior of Sherlock Holmes. Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

**"Imperturbable"**

Chapter 1

The loud crash of breaking glass. I sighed, folding up my paper, and forced myself up again. It was not the first time, and I doubted that it would be the last.

Holmes' door was unlocked – of course it was – and I let myself in. He did not acknowledge my entrance, nor did I expect him to. In fact, I half-expected him to be glaring at me; if he could that is.

I began picking up the shards of glass – this one was so shattered that I could scarcely tell what it was. Of course, using the deduction skills that I had picked up, I determined from the shape of the indent in the wall, the dark liquid that trailed down from said indentation onto the floor with the shards, and the carefully hand-painted design on said shards, that it had been one of Mrs Hudson's favourite teacups. The poor woman. As if his incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice within doors, and his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments weren't enough, now this was added to the list.

For a moment, I contemplated inquiring as to what would posses him to batter the innocent piece of glassware in such a way. But, I thought it might be better not to. Holmes was bad enough when he was in one of these moods under normal circumstances. And, while such maltreatment of our landlady's teacups certainly wasn't called for, his mood was justified.

* * *

How strange it was to see my friend in good spirits. After slaving over the same case for the last two and a half weeks, I had begun to miss that smile that so rarely graced Holmes' visage. Finally, though, a clue showed up, a lead went through, and here we were, barely a metre behind our villain!

Our feet seemed to fly over the stone streets, and my adrenaline levels just seemed to increase with each step. Still, the ache in my leg made the idea of sitting in front of the fire that evening while writing up the case seem all the more desirable.

Holmes seemed to notice that I was slowing down. He continued at the same pace, but a look of concern flashed across his features as he kept giving me worried glances.

"Go on ahead, old boy; I'll catch up to you before Lestrade." He only offered a nod in return as he sped up, and I couldn't help but wonder where all that energy came from, considering the lack of food and sleep my friend had had over the last week or so.

Holmes had gotten quite far ahead of me in a matter of minutes, and I could clearly see him closing in on the subject, Victor Rollins.

What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion.

I saw Holmes tackle the man to the ground.

I saw the two fight for dominance.

I saw the man pull his gun.

I saw the man pull his trigger.

Then everything got much faster.

Holmes screamed, rolling off of the man who proceeded to haul himself up and attempt to flee. My instincts as a service man immediately kicked in. Without thinking, my revolver was in my hand, and a bullet was lodged in Rollins' left leg before I realized that I had pulled the trigger.

Lestrade would have heard the multiple gunshots and come rushing over. The suspect would not be going anywhere far anytime soon, Scotland Yard would have no trouble apprehending him.

Even so, my attention was far away from our criminal and the local law enforcement. I was at Holmes' side as fast as my leg would allow, ignoring the incessant throbbing radiating throughout. He was curled away from me, hands pressed to his face. I lay him flat, forcing away the shield of his hands. I breathed a sigh of relief; the bullet had missed. There was a series of burns along the left side of his face, but they would heal, and I didn't think there would be much scarring, if any at all.

Everything was okay.

"Watson..."

Or so I thought.

"I...I can't see..."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Holmes was not one to accept help unless it was forced upon him. I was lucky that he hadn't refused my treatments this time. Of course, he was unconscious at the start, but he could have stopped me at any point after.

The fact that he didn't speaks more than he ever would.

He let me try what I could, and, when I could do no more, promptly sent me away. He followed my orders. He stayed in bed. But he refused contact with anyone unless completely necessary. I knew he was afraid, and I wanted to help. Unfortunately, with Holmes, the best I could do at this point was to give him his space and let him try to continue on as the proud, independent, stubborn man that he was. He did not want to be pitied, and I would honour that unspoken request as best as I could.

* * *

"Watson! Dear God... Watson I'm blind!"

I watched his gray eyes intently. Surely he was overreacting, exaggerating. Sherlock Holmes wasn't blind.

"W...Watson...."

Those steely eyes continued to stare vacantly and... No.... No, those couldn't be tears. Not from Sherlock Holmes.

He began hyperventilating. He was shaking. And he seemed to be much too cold, even for this weather. He was going into shock.

No. No, no, no. This was bad.

Lestrade strode over to us, a fat grin on his face, looking to congratulate Holmes on another job well done. I saw his face sink in a matter of seconds. He looked as though he was going to say something, but I stopped him before the words could come, "Lestrade, call a cab."

"Charing Cross?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Baker Street," I said, knowing that Holmes would not take kindly to being forced into a hospital. He would be my charge.

Lestrade nodded and ran off to fulfil my directions, and I turned my attention back to Holmes. He was asleep.

That was a bad sign.

"Holmes! Holmes! Come on, old boy." I shook him slightly, then rougher when there was no effect. This was very bad. "Lestrade, what's taking so long?!"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Eventually, Lestrade did show up with the cab. To this day I have no idea why it took so long, and can only speculate as to if it would have made a significant difference had he shown up earlier.

I managed to wake Holmes long enough to assess the situation and get him out of immediate harm. But, his eyes...that would have to wait.

Holmes was asleep again by the time we got to Baker Street, lulled by the rocking of the carriage. Still, the pained expression remained on his face. Mrs Hudson, after much initial, frenzied questioning of what had happened, helped me move Holmes up the 17 stairs. My leg made a point of expressing its disapproval. We moved Holmes to his room, and I immediately went to work, fighting the urge to collapse into my favourite chair in the sitting room.

I held a candle near his eyes. No visible reaction. That was a bad sign.

I did what I could with the limited supplies and knowledge that I had. I washed away the gunpowder, and applied what medicines I could. More than anything, this blindness was most likely cause by the bright light of the explosion. There was little I could do for that.

Still, I counted this as a blessing. Had Holmes not been able to force Rollins' arm off course, my friend would be dead right now.

I hoped that he would realize that when he came to.

That wouldn't be for sometime, though. I felt it ironic as a I filled the syringe, that after all the years I had spent discouraging his recreational use of morphine, here I was administering it to him. He would be in a great deal of pain for a few days, and I wanted to spare him as much of it as I could.

I wrapped bandages around his eyes; keeping the light out could only help the situation. Then, I moved on to the burns that littered the side of his face. Again I was thankful that it would cause little to no permanent damage. Maybe Holmes would take that? _No. Not if he can't see to confirm it himself_.

The days passed by, all blurring into each other. Holmes woke only occasionally, and even then it was only for an hour or two at a time. It was on one of these rare occasions that Holmes officially banned visitors from his room.

"Please, Watson, just leave." Holmes was becoming more lucid each day, staying awake for longer periods of time, and (surprisingly) not requesting more of the morphine that I had steadily administered for the last several days.

"I am just trying to help you." It had become clear to us that even the simplest tasks were now exponentially more difficult because of Holmes blindness. As a doctor, and even more as a friend, I wanted to help him, but he insisted on being left to his own devices.

He was always this stubborn about my medical opinion when it concerned his health. I remembered last winter when he had contracted pneumonia due to his neglecting his health. Eventually, he had gotten worse and was forced to give in to me, but not until after his case was solved and the criminal was imprisoned.

But this was ridiculous even for Holmes. Surely his brilliant mind had deduced that this was much more serious!

"Watson, I do not wish for your further assistance."

I had done my best to be patient with him, but this was going too far. "Holmes, as your doctor-"

"You will respect my declination of your offer."

"Then as your _friend_-"

"_John!_"

That was strange. He never called me by my Christian name.

"Leave." His voice was barely audible, but there was something dark about the way he said that.

I did as he asked, slamming the door behind me. I half-expected Mrs Hudson to appear and berate me for abusing the house. She didn't. She had heard the arguing of the past few days. I wouldn't doubt that all of Baker Street had heard. The tension between the residents of 221B was almost tangible; no one wanted to become tangled in that.

That was when the first glass object was brutally shattered within Holmes quarters.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I sat in the sitting room, immersed in my news paper. Normally, I would be putting the finishing touches on my account of Holmes latest case, and getting ready to deliver it for publication. Of course, given the circumstances, I didn't think that it would be appropriate.

I was beginning to miss "normally." Normally, Holmes would be sawing at his violin, which now sat idly within its case on a stack of books in the corner. Normally, Holmes would be conducting some strange experiment at his chemistry table, now covered by a sheet to prevent the glassware getting dusty. Normally, Holmes would be reading over my shoulder (though he thought I didn't notice) as I put the finishing touches on my account of his latest case, secretly criticizing my portrayal of his beloved art of deduction, but being to polite to make those thoughts known.

But, there he was, shut away in his room. Sure, in his current condition, Holmes would not be able to do any of those old things anyway. But I missed having him around. I had grown quite fond of my flatmate over the years, and it was strange to think that he was so close, but so far away at the same time.

It was wrong.

I looked up at the sound of a door opening and closing, to see Mrs Hudson leaving Holmes' room with a full breakfast tray.

"Still nothing?" I asked. She shook her head and left.

For one so brilliant, it astounded me how utterly stupid that man could be. As if he had not problems enough, the man had refused food for the last two days. I had half a mind to go and confront him. But, I knew that that would only make things worse.

I folded up my paper with a bit more force than necessary, tossing the severely wrinkled mass of paper on the floor beside my chair. That stupid man and his stupid pride. On more than one occasion I had seen him brought near his demise because of it. Who was to say that this wouldn't be a similar case? I sighed in frustration, closing my eyes as if the answer were written on the backs of my eyelids.

Then I heard a loud sound from Holmes' room.

This time it wasn't just glass.

Only one possibility came to mind.

I got up as if galvanized, nearly tripping over my chair in the rush. Throwing the door open, I came across exactly what I expected, and exactly what I had hoped not to see.

Holmes half-lay, crumpled on the ground. Where he thought he was going I didn't know; probably going to lock the door in order to further isolate himself from the world. Either way, he had tripped on the way. Trying to gain support to keep from falling, he reached out to a small table within arm's reach. Unfortunately, he only caught the table cloth, pulling it, and the pitcher of water (the only nourishment he'd accepted in days) down with him. The glass pitcher proceeded to shatter, and Holmes hadn't seen where he was putting his hands until it was too late.

Any other day I would have been proud of my deduction skills, and would have surely received some show of approval from my friend. But not today.

Holmes moved in a way as to cradle his profusely bleeding left arm, as he fought back the sounds of pain that came out in nearly inaudible squeaks. He couldn't see the damage. Maybe that was a good thing.

I did not want to move him quite yet, so I put a hand on his shoulder, instructing him to, "Stay right there," before hastily clearing the glass away and going to get my black bag. Upon returning, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and ushered him back to sit on the side of his bed. I dug through my bag for the needed supplies, and had to carefully claim the arm from Holmes' grip. His shirt was becoming steadily soaked in blood from the damaged limb, but that would have to be taken care of later.

I went about mending what I could, pulling out shards of glass, cleansing the laceration, and carefully stitching it back together, telling Holmes exactly what I was doing with each step. Even if he could see what I was doing, he would want to know _exactly_ what was being done to him.

When I finished, Holmes quickly pulled the arm back to its former place, braced against his chest. I then went on to begin disposing of the glass on the floor and cleaning up the mixture of water and blood.

As I contemplated how I would explain this to Mrs Hudson, I heard just the slightest of whispers from the figure seated behind me, "Watson... Will it... Will it be like this forever?"

I honestly didn't know. Flash burns were tricky. They could be just a day or two of visual impairment...or they could be permanent blindness. I had planned on checking his progress the day before; one could usually make an estimation about these things after two or three days. But, Homes had refused me access to him, and so I had been unable to.

I could have checked right then and there, but if the news was bad.... Holmes current mental state was not ideal if I had to tell him that he would remain blind for the rest of his natural born life.

"I...I don't know right now, old boy. But, tomorrow I can check to see how your eyes are healing."

I turned to see him nod in agreement.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I made good on my promise the next morning. I tried to undo the wrappings as carefully as I could, but Holmes had been fidgeting the whole time, his wringing hands distracting me. "Holmes, you need to relax." I was hoping for good news just as much as he was, but his nervousness was growing contagious.

He nodded, "Sorry, Watson." But his nervous shaking continued all the same.

Before I removed the rest of the gauze, "Holmes, I need you to keep your eyes closed for a few minutes while I assess the damage, okay?"

He nodded.

"I mean it, Holmes."

He hesitated a moment before repeating the action.

I removed the rest of the gauze. I didn't see any noticeable scarring, and the burns on his face were healing better than I could have hoped. "Now, Holmes, I need you to open your eyes very slowly." He'd always kept the curtains closed anyway, so I wasn't worried about the light. Still, I didn't want to risk anymore damage. "There's no rush, and I don't want you to hurt yourself."

I'm sure he thought I didn't notice that he flinched at that last statement, and I saw him pull his left arm in closer to his body. Tentatively he began to open his eyes, then blink several times once they were fully open.

"Hold still, now," I said, lighting a match and checking the dilation of his pupils. Holmes winced at the sudden introduction of light after days of nothing but darkness, but his eyes were responding well. "Holmes, could you tell me what you can see?"

He squinted just a bit, "Colours. And some shapes, but they're blurry."

I was hoping for more, but that was about what I had expected. I was glad that he still retained his sight, however minimally. "That's good, old boy. Very good."

His eyes were moving rapidly, scanning everything in the room as if, just maybe, there was at least one thing he would be able to see clearly. "Watson..." he seemed unsure of his question, "how long, do you think, until it gets better?"

I frowned, and wondered if he saw it. "Soon, I hope. But, I cannot guarantee that it will." He gained a frown to match my own. "It certainly looks good, and your eyes don't seem to have any scarring that I can see. I can't promise that your vision will return to its previous precision, but we have to take this one step at a time."

He was silent for a long time before, "Thank you, Watson. That will be all."

No. I had hoped that we'd gotten past this. "Holmes, this is good. Really it is. The fact that you're able to see at all-"

"Is wonderful, I'm sure," he cut in. "After all, seeing is what you do, is it not? Simply looking at the world?" His voice grew louder, and his tone was not one that I had ever expected from my friend. "Well, that's fine for you, John. Absolutely brilliant! But not for me!" He was silent for a moment, his voice becoming a whisper, "What am I if not 'Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective who ever lived?' Without my ability to observe what no one else notices, I am not... So what am I?"

"You are still 'Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective who ever lived,' and infinitely more! You are 'Sherlock Holmes, my best friend.' And, to think that you are any less because of a visual impairment is ridiculous. How could you, of all people, be such a fool?"

He did not have to ask me to leave again.

**AN: Just wanted to say a quick thanks to everyone who's reviewed, faved, or added the story to their alerts. You guys make it worth it. ^_^**

**Oh, and today is February (2) 21st! I just thought that was pretty cool (though I can't think of a way to add a "B" to that). Also, the word of the day on my calendar is imperturbable, just to add to the awesomeness.**

**There MIGHT be another chapter tomorrow, if I can work it in around school. So, pray for a snow day, okay?  
**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I saw very little of Holmes for the remainder of the week. He spent most of the time in his room, coming out only once to retrieve his violin; I supposed that the boredom of the last several days had finally gotten to him. He tripped only once, and I still had enough respect for him to honour his wishes and let him gain his own balance.

All I saw or heard of him for the next two days was the playing of that violin day and night. Normally it would have bothered me, but it was a nice change from the silence of the last week.

Again I found myself reading in the sitting room, when the music finally stopped. How curious. I turned at the sound of Holmes' door opening. He just stood there staring at me for a moment, contemplating whether or not to turn back.

I couldn't help but wonder why. Had I caught him in the act? By now his eyesight should have improved enough that he could handle a syringe, and even I was amazed that he had gone so long without his seven-percent solution. Still, I doubted that, even with his remarkable improvements, he would be able to use the needle with the accuracy he once did. And, I was certainly not going to let him attempt it.

"Watson..." he interrupted my thoughts. I waited for it, the question of where I had hidden his vice this time. But he was hesitant. It felt as if several minutes had passed in silence before, "I'm sorry."

That...I was not expecting. "What?"

I half expected him to roll his eyes and return to his state of self-isolation. But he didn't. "I said...I said that I am sorry. I...apologize for all that I have put you through over the last week."

Was this really Sherlock Holmes. "No problem at all," the last week had been quite trying, but, "I was happy to help."

"No, Watson, you don't understand." He began moving closer to me, as if I had not quite heard him from his place across the room. What amazed me was that – despite all the obstructions – he seemed to navigate the room perfectly, except for a close call or two. "You have been nothing but good to me, yet all I've done is push you away and make your job more difficult."

"Holmes, you are not a job."

"Right, I'm a chore. A job implies that you are receiving compensation. Very good, Watson. You're improving."

I rolled my eyes, "You're not that either, Holmes. You're my friend, and I'm happy to help you in any way I can." He opened his mouth to say something. "No, Holmes. I mean it. You couldn't help your actions, and I understand that. But, if you feel you must apologize for your very nature, you may do so by promising that you will at least _attempt_ to not put yourself in a situation for something like this to happen again?"

Clearly, he had not been expecting that. But, after a moment, he nodded with a smile.

I returned the smile. "Good. Now, I assume you have improved enough to be capable of reading? I've been missing the old Sherlock Holmes, and Lestrade has sent a telegraph about a new case." I crossed the room to retrieve the aforementioned message.

"No," he interrupted my action, "the case can wait. I would much rather treat my dear friend to an evening at Simpson's."

And how could I deny him his wish?

**AN: There was a snowday today, so here is the promised chapter. I think it might also be the last chapter, since this seems like a good place to end. There could be an epilogue in the future, or maybe even a sequel. I'm not promising anything, though. We'll just have to see if the time and inspiration show up. Until then, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, etc. Did you all like it? Is there anything you wish I had done differently? Your feedback helps. ^_^**

**Yours truly.  
**


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